


Stages

by flowerdeluce



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, First Kiss, First Time, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Burn, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: Thanks to Joe’s rules, White’s the only one he’ll be able to get to know any better before the heist. His character’s more formed in White’s company anyway, and there’s already a connection there. Can’t help to strengthen it. White clearly enjoys imparting knowledge too, having a protégé to impress, and who knows, maybe Joe’s still making him keep an eye on him. It’s in Freddy’s interests to play along.





	Stages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tillunwish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tillunwish/gifts).



Finally, a chance to use the commode story.

Joe and Eddie have already introduced him to codename White. They know Freddy’s alias, and now he’s got another one: Orange (Mr. Orange, if you want to get technical.) It’s kind of ridiculous, like he’s a little plastic figurine for Joe to manipulate on a Clue board stand-in for L.A. — Professor Plum in the dining room with the lead pipe; Mr. Orange in the bank with the revolver. Whatever. If he’s given him a name, he’s keeping him on the team. Joe can call him whatever the fuck he wants.

They swallow the story, despite Eddie’s questions, and it works like a whole goddamn box of Lucky Charms. He’s off-book, living the script, performing like a veritable Shakespearean actor (if Shakespeare wrote about shifting weed) and his audience lap up his every word. Though now it’s out there, stage fright over, he wishes he had another story this well-rehearsed, because these scumbags live off anecdotes. It’s never personal stories. It’s always someone else, something they heard happened to a friend of a friend, embellished, altered to fit who’s listening. They’ll pass this one on like a game of Telephone too, spice it up until it’s no longer Freddy’s story at all. Well, it never was.

Joe sends him to collect another round when he’s barely sniffed his own drink. It’s a ploy, probably, to talk to Eddie and White about him. Or he’s just a fat motherfucker who needs to neck an entire bottle before getting close to a buzz. Freddy goes anyhow, props himself coolly against the bar once the barkeep knows the score, adrenaline from his one-man show wearing off.

White talks with his hands. A lot. Even from the bar, through the cigarette smoke and over the bass vibrating through the sticky floor, Freddy gets the gist of the table’s conversation. They’re talking about him: the new kid. White’s confident around the Cabots; he nudges Joe when he laughs, noise drowned under the din that is the Boots & Socks bar. That’ll be why Joe’s introduced him to White, then: he trusts him. They’ve history. Orange is the risk, inexperienced, in need of guidance from an old hand. That suits Freddy fine. And it explains White’s gaze flicking over to him, sizing him up, pulling on a cigarette that’s an extension of his fist. 

White’s got that trademark West Coast tan, leathered skin that could deflect bullets. Freddy never tans. His pale ass gets burnt if he doesn’t wear that lotion that smells like a chick’s cocktail, freckles popping up like Little Orphan Annie. White’s built, too. And fuck no, not in the way that requires constant working out. He’s made that way. Thick enough to fill out a shirt without trying.

Joe leans close to White’s ear, prodding a thick finger into his chest as White’s eyes stay locked on Freddy. The music doesn’t warrant their proximity; Joe always talks like he’s swallowed a megaphone. They’re sharing something. White nods, smiles, laughs, then nods again. 

A tap on Freddy’s shoulder informs him the drinks are ready.

The song changes as he crosses the room. Whatever track was playing bleeds into the first growling riff of ZZ Top’s _Gimme All Your Lovin’_ , ripping through the dancers like a cattle-prod, spurring limp bodies into action: hands raise, hair swings, hips twist. White’s tapping his thigh to the beat, Mr. fucking relaxed. 

Pushing the drinks into the middle, Freddy grabs a vacant chair and offers himself a seat at the big boy’s table. No one seems to mind. Eddie’s telling a story of his own. Well, spinning someone else’s. Time to listen, not talk. 

A cigarette will give Freddy something to do with his hands because fuck, he’s nervous now he doesn’t have the commode story as the ace up his sleeve. He fumbles with his lighter. White’s knee is pressed against his left thigh under the table, the tip of Eddie’s loafer prodding his right foot. The air’s stifling in this joint, and the table’s far too small for the four of them. Joe manages to look cool as a cucumber stuffed into his suit, but he’s in comfortable company, attention held by his son’s yarn, not worried his ‘true self’ is going to slip out any second. (Joe’s never anything but his true self.)

Freddy inhales that first, hot drag, nice and slow, tension dropping from his shoulders as he exhales. The second is just as leveling, forcing him to breathe steadier as he pretends to listen. He should be picking holes in Eddie’s story as he did to his, but maybe not in front of Joe. Another time. He notices White looking at him – hell, he could’ve been looking this whole time – and it might just be the man’s way but he’s inspecting him a little too closely. Does he recognize him? Is that it? Is his first undercover blown before it begins because this bastard has a photographic memory or some shit? He tugs the neck of his shirt, feels it cling to his back. This fucking jacket. When Freddy turns his head, throws White a look, he shifts his gaze like he’s been caught, or hadn’t realized he was staring. Shame. If he was anywhere else, literally anywhere else, he’d kill to have a guy stare at him like that. 

Stubbing his smoke out in the ashtray, he pushes his chair back. Only White’s eyes follow the movement. “Gotta take a leak.”

There’s a small high window in the men’s room (with bars on, which is fairly symbolic) and halle-fucking-lujah, it’s open. It doesn’t make much difference, but at least the air’s thinner, even if it smells of piss. It’s a little quieter too. He can actually hear himself think. 

Jacket off, he runs his hands and wrists under a stream of deliciously cold water. He tells himself it’s nerves, holds some serious eye-contact with his reflection — get a grip, Freddy; come on, man; you’ve got them eating out the palm of your hand. His mouth’s a thin, serious line in the mirror and the fluorescents accentuate the pink in his cheeks. Does it make him look guilty? No. Anyone would be nervous around Joe Cabot. Just in case, he cups his hands under the water and splashes his cheeks. It’s like a slap in the face but in a good way, the temperature resetting his brain. Exhaling a long, slow breath, he watches the water drain through his fingers.

“You okay, kid?” 

Freddy didn’t hear the door open, but there White is at the urinals like a phantom, eyes sliding over to him as he zips up.

“Yeah, I’m good. It’s hot in there.” 

White looks at him in the mirror while washing up, gaze heavy, regarding him. He looks different in this light, sharper around the edges, and when he’s standing it’s easy to see the guy’s a tank. Soft eyes, though.

“You know, Joe seems intimidating, but his bark’s worse than his bite.” He stops the faucet, shakes his fingers over the basin. “Once you prove you’re reliable, he’ll always have your back.” 

“He doesn’t intimidate me.” Freddy straightens his back, puffing himself up, partly because he doesn’t want to look like a kid out of his depth and partly because he does. If Joe’s pairing them, White needs to think he’s got the right read on him: Mr. Orange is wet behind the ears but has potential. At least it’ll be an opportunity to ask plenty of questions.

“He wants me to put you through your paces, see what you can do.” 

Tearing paper towels from the dispenser, Freddy frowns. “Eddie said I was in already.” The job was in the bag he thought. No clue what it entails, though. Yet.

“Not like that.” White smirks, leans on the sinks. “Joe knows what he’s doing. He wants to play to your skills. There’s no use making you the getaway driver if you drive like a Turk.”

Freddy shrugs and throws the used towels onto the overflowing trashcan, collects his jacket from the side. “Whatever he wants.” 

“I’ll pick you up Monday. Eddie’s given me your address. How’s eleven?” 

“Sure.” 

White pats him on the shoulder with a meaty hand, a wordless well done. “C’mon. They’re missing you in there.” 

 

*

 

White’s gaze flits up to the rear view. They’ve been driving for a half hour, heading out of the city proper towards the desert. Imposing rocky valleys replace the districts on the city’s edges, a shaft of hot air blowing in through the open passenger window, lapping over Freddy’s neck and ears. Then it’s flat stretches of barren land and wood signposts for places Freddy’s never visited and probably never will. 

Despite White’s chattiness at Boots & Socks – spreading the green he’d won off the Brewers on drinks and pool games – sober White’s the silent type, arm slung over the drivers’ side window, his other hand on the wheel, tanned fingers tapping to the car radio. The highway gets emptier the further they get from the city, but White keeps checking his mirrors. Either he’s a cautious driver or he’s making sure no one’s tailing them. They would’ve been if Freddy hadn’t phoned the station last night and told Holdaway not to post the guys outside his apartment this morning. It had taken some arguing.

Their destination, once they finally arrive, is the middle of fucking nowhere. They took a pothole-riddled road to reach it – Freddy had wondered, briefly, if White was bringing him out here to whack him – then a narrow track almost swallowed by sand. White knew where he was going. 

There’s barely anything around: barrels piled around a trailer that’s seen better days, a rusted grill, piles of abandoned, sun-baked wood. White pulls his Lincoln – for what else would Mr. White drive? – next to the trailer, grass crunching beneath the tires. In the side view, the line of mountains separating them from the city looms, while empty desert stretches to the horizon up ahead. White cuts the engine. The radio stops. Silence.

“So, how’s your aim, kid?” 

“Uh, pretty good.” 

“You armed?” 

There’s a Beretta in Freddy’s ankle holster, but that’s for emergencies and would almost definitely look suspicious. Though, wasn’t it more suspicious for a small-time crook to leave the house without protection?

White nods at Freddy’s side of the dash. “Check the glovebox.”

Inside, there’s a worn box of cartridges, a bottle of water, and two Smith and Wessons cuddled up atop the leather-bound Lincoln owner’s manual. 

“I come here to relax.” White stares through the windshield, inhaling a lungful of clean, hot air before rooting in his pocket and pulling out a pack of Chesterfields. “But today I wanna see how you handle a gun.” 

Freddy stares at the twin pistols. “Then you’ll report back to Joe?” 

“Then I’ll report back to Joe,” White repeats, lighting up. 

Before those agonizingly dull days waiting by the phone, Freddy had read Eddie his credits, some borrowed from cases he’d worked on, others complete bullshit: holding up liquor stores, gas stations, poker games. All armed. And Long Beach Mike would’ve vouched for any one of them. Evidently, stories aren’t enough for the Cabots. You couldn’t say they weren’t thorough. 

White gestures with his cigarette towards the pistols. “Load ‘em up and we’ll go shoot some cans.” 

Freddy smirks. Grabbing the cartridge box, he starts loading the first pistol. It’s like a scene from some cheesy Western. White thinks he’s Clint Eastwood, ready to impart his knowledge to a novice before a showdown. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, doesn’t know Freddy’s trained, has had a gun on his hip almost every day since he was twenty-two. But White isn’t testing Officer Newandyke. He’s testing Mr. Orange. Orange is cocky, sure, streetwise, ditto, but he’ll make mistakes. There’s a fine line to dance: being good enough that Joe wants to keep him on but not too good he raises suspicions. 

“Nicely done,” White says, once Freddy’s shown he can load two double stacks no trouble. He opens the driver door. “The range is this way.” 

As they traipse wild brush beneath the boiling midday sun, White takes one of the pistols from Freddy and slips it into the belt of his pants. “Joe’ll give you one of these for the job. It’ll be good to get some practice in with it.” 

Freddy kicks a stone from his path. A small dust cloud gathers around his ankles. “I’ve used a gun before.” 

“I’m sure you have, buddy boy. But you’re working with a real crew now, and a crew’s only as good as its weakest member. There’s no shame in practicing.” 

They stop in the scant shade of a Joshua tree. Several plinking targets – empty gas cans, an upturned barrel, corrugated sheet metal that probably once formed the roof of a shack – lie scattered around like battle casualties. The pockmarked metal reminds Freddy of a rare childhood outing shooting his dad’s service revolver at stop signs, before it all went to shit. There’s a tree stump about twenty feet away, old soda cans and rusted tins strewn around the base. This is a popular spot.

“Go set up some targets.”

Reluctantly leaving the shade, Freddy arranges four sun-bleached cola cans in a line atop the trunk. He’s going to get sunburnt, he fucking knows it. This better not take long. 

As Freddy trudges back, old cartridges glistening in the sand around his feet, White says, “And before you ask, no one gives a rat’s ass about people shooting here.”

Freddy nods. They might once he tells Holdaway, though this patch of desert isn’t exactly a link to the criminal underworld. They’d catch a few unregistered firearms if they cared enough to post someone here, which they wouldn’t. So, yeah – White’s right: no one gives a rat’s ass.

“Let’s see what you can do.” 

White twists his cigarette under his heel. He’s looking at Freddy with curiosity, like he expects him to be a good shot. Maybe he’s heard something from Eddie. Maybe he hasn’t. Freddy didn’t fire in any of his fictional holdups, so… explains the test. It’d help a bunch if he knew White’s expectations, or what role Joe has in mind for him. But, fuck it. Shoot the cans. There’ll be time to overanalyze later. 

Freddy switches off the safety and aims with both hands, finds his balance. The pistol is heavy, the grip warm. The sights check out. If only his hands weren’t sweaty. White’s still studying him a little too closely. Hopefully he doesn’t think he looks like a cop. What were his novice mistakes with aiming? It’s hard to remember; holding a gun feels so natural nowadays. 

“Any time you want,” White says with a small chuckle. 

A ‘sorry’ slips out before Freddy thinks. 

“Pretend I’m not here.”

Taking a deep breath, he refocuses, trying to ignore influences not usually present when focusing on a target. He’s overthinking it. Just shoot the damn cans. 

He squeezes the trigger back: the first shot’s steady and hits the first can clean away; he grazes the second with the next, sending it onto its side; his third and fourth are fast and uncontrolled, missing the remaining cans completely, shots thudding into the stump instead. 

“Pretty good,” White says, stepping closer. “We can work on those jitters.”

Freddy’s kind of disappointed in himself. He wanted to impress White, but it’s probably better this way.

“Problem is,” White begins, coming up behind him, “you’re putting too much pressure on the barrel with your thumb. Aim again.” 

White presses his chest to Freddy’s back, raising his right arm alongside his and wrapping his fingers around his hand. “You’re squeezing here when you fire.” He demonstrates by pushing the pad of his thumb against Freddy’s thumbnail. “Try again, but don’t grip so hard.” As he steps back, his hand slides from Freddy’s shoulder to the small of his back, rests there as though he’s unaware how totally distracting that is. 

Freddy attempts to refocus. White was touchy-feely with Joe at Boots & Socks, even Eddie. Perhaps it’s just his way – not afraid to get close. It’s unusual. In Freddy’s experience, men don’t act like that. If they must touch, they slap each other’s backs, shake hands, high-five; they resist the kind of personal proximity White seems undaunted by, and Freddy learned that the hard way. But he’s cool. Until White’s hand strokes his back in reassurance when he takes a while to aim again. On instinct, Freddy jerks away, disguising it behind shifting his balance. 

He hits the remaining cans dead center. 

“Much better. Go line up some more.” 

Freddy makes his way over to the stump again, collecting cans on the way that look like they’ll stand up on their own. Holdaway will have questions about this little adventure into the Californian desert, and what exactly does he have to say for himself so far? He knows White’s plate number, that he keeps guns in his glovebox. That’s nothing. 

“I wanna see you this time,” Freddy says, approaching the edge of the shade White’s sheltering under. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah.”

With a tip of his head, White steps out into the sun. Barely taking a moment to aim, he shoots the cans one by one with the steadiest hand Freddy’s ever seen. “Good enough for ya?”

Freddy closes his mouth and nods. 

“Told you, it’s good to practice.” 

Hesitating, Freddy looks over to where he’ll be expected to replace the targets, then back to White. “You ever shot anyone?” It isn’t a strange question. Now’s the perfect time to ask in fact, though he’s no less nervous for it. 

White’s face closes off, his expression hardening. He studies Freddy while sliding his pistol back into his belt. “Why do you ask?”

“I, uh, heard it’s pretty shit.” Brilliant acting there, Freddy. 

“It’s not a good feeling.” 

“So you have?” 

“Kid. If you want this life, sometimes you gotta do things that don’t sit right, you know? It’s serious. You’ve gotta protect yourself at any cost. If you can’t deal with that, choose another profession.” 

“Yeah.” Holdaway said it was good to let truths slip into your act every now and then. If you want to be method, naturalistic, you’ve got to. “I’m kinda nervous about this job, though. Especially with, all this.” He gestures at their surroundings, the situation. His admission might tease more info out of White before he meets the others; he still knows nothing about the job.

“If Joe didn’t think you were capable, he wouldn’t have picked you for this crew. Besides, you’re making your bones here, he’s not expecting you to run the show.” He slides a cigarette from his pocket and uses it to point at him. “All you gotta do is show up, do as you’re told, and Joe’ll take care of you after. Before that, you’ve got me, and I’ll make sure you get some nice easy role. Think you can handle that?” 

Freddy nods, squinting in the sun. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. Now line ‘em back up.” 

 

*

 

He finally meets the rest of the crew at a warehouse downtown. Eddie’s taxi service – racist story thrown in free of charge – takes him from door to door. His desert audition went well: the part is in the bag.

After bestowing his disciples’ names and the mission commandments, Joe explains how the job will go down. It’s a diamond heist. Total action movie stuff. Freddy’s got to give it to Joe – he knows his shit. He’s organized, keeps a tight ship. 

Freddy’s back at school, sat before the teacher in the back row, only he’s allowed to smoke in class now. He’s sharing the back row with Mr. Blue, another silent type, and Mr. Pink – an expert on stones by the sounds of things – who just so happens to be the most fidgety guy Freddy’s ever had the misfortune of sitting next to. It’s almost like being at the station, Officer Barclay kicking his chair leg while he’s trying to listen to a briefing, only this is more fun. White’s sat in front of him, the calmest guy here, scratching at a notebook with a chewed pencil every now and then.

When Joe hands over to Eddie, he takes his son’s vacant seat and starts dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. The warehouse windows are either closed or boarded up, the door’s bolted, and the sun beating down on the roof has turned the place into a greenhouse. 

“So, listen up Brady Bunch: here’s what you’re doing next.” Eddie surveys his audience, as confident as ever. “Mr. Blonde and Mr. Blue, I want you studying the staff photos.” Plucking two paper folders from the table, he hands them out. “You need to know these faces better than your momma’s, ‘kay? You see someone on the day who looks like they don’t belong, like they’re a fucking plant, you’re responsible for getting everyone outta there.” 

Mr. Blonde clicks his tongue and points at Eddie; they share a smile before Eddie continues. He’s pacing before the two boards, one heavy with an impressive amount of documentation, the other showing a chalk map of Karina’s, the lines disturbed by Joe’s big fingers when he’d taken them through step by step. If it wasn’t for the gold chains hanging off him, Eddie would look right at home in a board meeting, pitching some big idea to a room of investors. Once Joe’s gone, he’ll step straight into his father’s shoes. 

“Mr. White, Pink, Orange, you’re gonna need to take time out of your busy schedules to visit the store. Say you’re looking for something expensive for your girlfriend, your mom, whatever. It doesn’t matter. What you’re really doing is getting a feel for the place. Do you spot any obstacles? Is there a bump in the carpet that’ll trip you up in the heat of the moment? Does the door stick? You get me?” 

“If we do?” Pink asks, raising a hand after he’s asked. 

Eddie double-taps his temple. “Keep it up here. Be prepared. Share it with the others if you think it’s necessary.” He turns to Mr. Brown. “You, Mr. Brown, are gonna drive the route from Karina’s to here until you know it in your sleep. I want you to know every inch of it, every pothole, every set of lights, everything. ‘Cause everyone in that car will be relying on you to know it.” 

The Cabot’s drama is more than well-directed, and their chosen players all seem more than qualified – every one of these guys probably has a rap sheet longer than a Led Zeppelin song. It’s Joe that Holdaway’s after, but he’s not going to make it easy. The plan’s perfect. No one knows each other, but they know Joe and Joe knows them. The setup demands respect, loyalty, and, ultimately, their trust that Joe will keep them safe if they do the same for him. And how could you prove his part in the job if you don’t even know the names of the guys you’re doing it with? It’s fucking smart, really. 

Eddie takes the role of taxi driver again when it’s time to split. Cool air rushes in through the main doors when he unlocks them, rustling the plastic wrapped around the bunch of caskets huddled eerily in the corner. Freddy gravitates towards the more comfortable temperature with the others until he’s stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder: White’s. 

“Hey, kid. You wanna visit Karina’s together?” 

“Sure.” 

When White passes him his notebook and pencil, Freddy goes to take them instinctively. Then, looking at them in his hands, asks, “What’re these for?”

“Your phone number.” 

“Why? 

“How else we gonna arrange it, smoke signals?” 

Freddy grins and goes to write, then stops, accusing White with the pencil’s blunt end. “Is this a test? See if I’ll break Joe’s rules?”

White laughs. “Nope. I know where you live, remember?” 

Cautious, but aware White’s got his back – he did snag him that easy role he’d promised: guarding the door – he scribbles his number across one page.

White leans in. “This means I can give you a few minutes notice before I pop by for coffee.” He laughs at Freddy’s surprised look, pats his shoulder. “Just kidding.” 

Passing the notebook back, Freddy half-smiles at him. “Shame.” 

Thanks to Joe’s rules, White’s the only one he’ll be able to get to know any better before the heist. His character’s more formed in White’s company anyway, and there’s already a connection there. Can’t help to strengthen it. White clearly enjoys imparting knowledge too, having a protégé to impress, and who knows, maybe Joe’s still making him keep an eye on him. It’s in Freddy’s interests to play along.

Eddie blares his horn outside, stopping Joe and Blue’s conversation dead at the back of the room.

“What are you guys doing?” Joe snaps, voice strained. “Get outta here!” 

White pulls a face like he’s been caught, then, “We’re gone, papa.” He shoos Orange towards the door, a hand on his waist. 

As they sprint to the Cadillac, White tells Freddy he’ll call him soon. Hopefully, he won’t make him wait long. 

 

*

 

Freddy twists the phone cord around his finger while it rings. His wrists are still sunburnt from the desert trip. The PD usually pick up pretty quickly, but it’s late. 

“Yeah?” 

Freddy didn’t expect Holdaway to answer personally this time of night. The guy never switches off either. “It’s me.” 

Holdaway’s voice is warm. “What’ve you got for me, Freddy?”

“A lot. Too much for a call.”

“So what can I do for you?” 

“It’s the guys posted outside. They gotta go.” 

“How long this time?”

“For good.”

The line crackles as Holdaway sighs. “I can back them off a block or two, but I can’t leave you without backup.” 

“You’ve got to, man.” This isn’t a decision he’s made lightly; it’s been on his mind since Eddie dropped him home. White could turn up any time, call any time. He has to make himself available to these guys when they want him.

“Got some motherfucker sniffin’ round?” 

“Yeah.” Lucky he’s on the phone; Holdaway can always tell when he’s lying in person. 

He can almost hear him thinking at the other end of the line. He _can_ hear him drinking. Black coffee, probably. Irished up. 

“It’s risky, but you wouldn’t ask unless you knew that so… they’re gone.” 

“Thanks.”

“Meet me at the spot tomorrow, twenty-three hundo?” He’ll want to know every goddamn detail about the job and the crew, and he’ll be disappointed by what little he gets about the latter.

“Sure.”

“Keep up the good work.” 

Freddy stands the moment he hangs up and picks his way through the mess in his bedroom to the window. The unmarked Chrysler is parked close to a streetlight, the spread of orange light fanning across the hood. The guys inside are good officers, and they deserve more than a pointless night watch duty. They’ll be more than happy to get moved on someplace else. 

When the car slinks off, Freddy’s final link to the station rolls away into the night. It’s just him and Orange now. There might not be anyone watching but he’s still got to play the part. Even when he’s alone, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed in the dark.

Undercover work should be easy, because every cop’s at least two people inside: a cop, and a snitch to some journalist; a cop but taking a cut of criminal activity he lets slip under the radar; a cop and a father who smothers the shit he sees daily the moment his son enters the room. Freddy’s been two people all his life. He’s good at it. Concealing his true profession from these guys should be nothing in comparison. Small-fry. But something doesn’t feel right. 

Even Joe’s two people. He said it himself: you’ll find him a different character when there isn’t work to be done. And that’s it, isn’t it? Mr. Orange doesn’t feel like someone else anymore, someone wholly different. Mr. Orange isn’t the douchebag character Holdaway tried to flesh out with scripts and associations, who’d fit right in with a bunch of lowlife crooks – there’s a lot of Freddy in him too. Mr. Orange is the cool, confident guy Freddy wants to be, the kind of guy White, Eddie, and hell, even Joe like. Wearing Mr. Orange’s skin feels good. Comfortable. 

He’ll enjoy it while he can. 

 

*

 

A dollop of sauce drips from Freddy’s taco onto the greasy paper. Dragging his thumb through the mess, he sucks it clean. 

It’s a decent taqueria, if a little busy. Authentic yet tacky décor, fast service, decent portions. A neon open sign flickers above their window booth, its blue and pink light reflecting off their table’s glass ashtray and ignored cutlery. White’s Lincoln is parked across the street on the meter, and White himself is parked in the opposite seat, quieter than he was while they cased Karina’s. Freddy misses their casual banter, White’s mildly appalling advice. 

“You know,” he says, mouth full of refried beans and ground beef, “it’s hard to have a decent conversation when we can’t talk about ourselves.” 

White’s eyes are on him while he chews, have been since they arrived. It should feel off-putting, but it doesn’t. He’s stared a lot: while they perused the menu, while he stirred four packets of Sweet’n Low into his coffee, and now, as he wipes his mouth with his napkin. 

“We’re not supposed to talk about anything besides the job.”

“Then why’re we getting lunch? Joe’s not keeping track of my diet, is he?” If he was, he’d be unimpressed.

“You’ve got a lip on you, kid.” It’s not an answer. 

Freddy speaks with his mouth full again, almost finished. “How long’s it been since your last job?” He waves a hand through the air at White’s expression. “I don’t need specifics.” Waiting for a reply, he sips his soda, then raises an eyebrow. “C’mon. It can’t hurt.”

“Let’s just say it’s been a while.” Classic White. Nice and vague.

“You only do big jobs?”

White takes a bite of his taco so he can’t answer straight away. As he’s crunching on the shell, Freddy watching him intently, his expression softens. He’s giving in. “Pretty much. What about you? What was your last job?” 

The imagined scene builds in Freddy’s mind, starting with flat green felt, red and blue poker chips springing up into neat stacks on top. Players materialize, seated around the table bathed in light, cards fanned in their hands. He’s told this one to Eddie; the details need to match. It’s another fiction he’s rehearsed until it feels real. The pantyhose stretched over his head flattens his nose down. His heart races at the flick-slap flick-slap sound of dealt cards on the other side of the door. Cigarette smoke floods his sinuses as he barges in, yells ‘this is a robbery!’ to the room. 

“I held up a poker game in Long Beach with one of my buddies. The idiots running it put posters up. I mean, how fucking stupid you gotta be to advertise where a bunch of gamblers are gonna be throwing green around? They weren’t betting on me showing up with a shotgun, I can tell you that.”

“A shotgun?” White laughs his dirty laugh and shakes his head. “You’re something else.” 

Freddy feels the weight of the weapon in his hands. He circles the table while Mike scoops armfuls of cash from the center into his backpack. Chips fall from the table, clatter onto the tile floor in slow-motion. 

“It was kinda funny. I mean, there I was, staring down eight, maybe ten guys, with two shots, and all of ‘em just sat there, didn’t try nothing. We took everything they had, even their watches. Bunch of pussies.” 

“Guess they didn’t like those odds.” 

White’s laugh is contagious, and Freddy can’t stop smiling as the imagined scene fades. If only this shit was true. How did Holdaway think he’d get by on a handful of anecdotes? There might be something from before the undercover, something he can twist into another story to make White laugh again, because the guy looks so goddamned good with a smile on his face. It suits him. 

“Any plans for your cut?” White’s finished his food and settled back against the plush seat, thick fingers circling his coffee cup. It’s a safe question, only barely bending the rules. 

“Sit on it, probably. I’m sick of moving pot and don’t ever want a nine-to-five again. That’s not me.” The last mouthful of his taco stops him briefly, then: “Every job in L.A. is boring as shit. And, I mean, that’s the whole point of this, right? We don’t have to settle for that.” He’s still hungry, so he drags the complimentary basket of nachos across the table and starts working through it. “What about you?” 

“Still deciding.” White goes to say more, then purses his lips like he’s trying to stop something spilling out. He sips his over-sweetened coffee instead. 

“What’re your options?”

“There’s a few.” Pulling out his Chesterfields, he pops one in his mouth and offers one across the table. “I need to make up my mind.”

“Or someone needs to make it for you?” Freddy smirks, accepting the proffered smoke and balancing it behind his ear. The vague question might tease something from White. If it’s that he’s a lone wolf, at least that’s something he’ll know about him.

“Maybe.”

Time to abandon subtly. “So, you married?”

“I’m not the marriage type.” Lighting up, White eyes him over the spark and flame. “You are, though.” 

“Huh?” 

White nods towards the hand Freddy’s digging in the nachos. Yeah. Shit. The ring. 

“That’s to stop girls hitting on me.”

White laughs out a lungful of smoke. “Some heartthrob! It’s such an issue for you eh, kid?” 

“Well… kinda, ‘cause I’m not interested in them, you know?” His hand freezes in the nacho basket. This is dangerous territory, taking Holdaway’s honesty thing way too far. Why doesn’t he just write ‘I’m a fag’ on his forehead and call it a day? He can already imagine the excuse White will make to get the hell out of here, regretting every moment he’s spent with him.

But he doesn’t say anything. He sits there, contemplating, until Freddy thinks the tension will choke him. The neon sign flickers, colors catching in White’s cigarette smoke as it snakes up from his hand. Just kidding – that’s all he needs to say. It’s just a joke! But it’s too late. It’s been left hanging too long, made the whole thing they’ve got going on awkward. Why couldn’t he make up some shit instead of pouring his insecurities out for White like a goddamn coffee refill? 

Finally, White glances at the paper piled on their empty plates, then over his shoulder towards the register. “I’m still hungry. Same again?” 

All Freddy can do is nod, his hand still in the nachos.

 

*

 

White’s arm rests on the driver’s side window, shades down his nose enough to look over the top. He’s chewing a toothpick he took from the Denny’s two blocks away where they had a late breakfast. Rows of palm trees line the length of the boulevard, leading the way to Venice beach ahead while their leaves shift in the barely noticeable breeze. A trio of skinny girls in skimpy outfits skate past the car, laughing as they snake through the tourists. Freddy wipes his brow with the back of his wrist and pops another Bubble-Yum. 

“You sure I gotta do this, man?” He’s asked twice already, but it’s worth asking again while pulling his best puppy dog face, a pathetic attempt to convince White to be merciful. I mean, a test of endurance on one of the most overcrowded beaches in L.A., and in the middle of summer? Who was he kidding?

“Joe’ll be pissed if I let you off.” 

“But what’s the point? I’m guarding the goddamn door. How hard can it be?” They were supposed to be done with this now. 

White tuts, pushing his sunglasses higher with a fingertip. “Don’t let Joe hear you say shit like that. You’re fit enough. What’s the big deal?”

Freddy folds his arms and looks out the window. It wouldn’t surprise him if this was some kind of initiation ritual. Once he’d run the length of the beach, maybe Joe, Eddie and the rest of the crew would be waiting, laughing themselves silly at a sweat-drenched, thoroughly pissed Mr. Orange. Well, the joke will be on them in the end. 

He spits his gum out the window. “Fine. So I have to get to the pier?”

White nods. “I’ll be there, checking my watch. You can improvise if you want.”

“Improvise? How improvise? Like, rent skates or something?” That’d be cool. If he could skate.

“How is it improvising if I tell you? Now get the hell out before I kick you out.”

Freddy shoves the passenger door open, planting his sneakers onto the ground with a sigh.

“Check the backseat,” White says through the window, once Freddy’s slammed the door. 

Blocking the sun with his hand, Freddy peers through the open rear window. An Adidas backpack sits on the back seat, blending in with the dark leather. 

“A gift, courtesy of Joe Cabot. Bring it with you.”

Reaching through the window, Freddy discovers the bag is a lot heavier than it looks. He unzips it to find two dumbbell weight plates inside. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Imagine it’s a bag of diamonds.” White winks over the top of his shades. “Now run along, there’s a good boy.” Starting the engine, he revs the gas a moment before shouting through the window: “Time starts now.” Then he’s gone, leaving nothing but exhaust fumes and the heavy backpack behind him. 

Holdaway will laugh himself silly when he hears about this. It’s practically abuse. And what’s the point of this exercise exactly? Does Joe want to know how inventive his newest crew member can be? If he can follow rules? Does he give jack shit about how fast he can run? Whatever the reason, he needs to move, and soon. He can’t let White down. 

He starts with a gentle sprint. The long-distance method from the academy is still in his head somewhere: alternating between a fast and slow pace in timed bursts. But he hasn’t stretched, it’s like ninety degrees, and he’s only just eaten a whole stack of blueberry pancakes. 

The weights are an immediate hindrance, obviously; that’s what they’re here for. They bounce against his spine unless he pulls the backpack’s straps together in front of his chest, which only makes his arms tired. It’ll be a tough run. Three miles White said. He’s not dressed for it, he’s thirsty – should’ve had water at Denny’s instead of two cups of coffee – and sweat is soaking through his shirt already. This fucking sucks.

About a half mile into the route, bike rental places pop up; that could be the kind of improvisation Larry hinted at, though the plastic racks of sunglasses look more appealing. It’ll take too long to fill out the paperwork (though he’d finally get a chance to use the fake I.D Holdaway had printed for him) and they’re ridiculously overpriced anyway. No. He’ll sweat, suffer and squint and make good time on foot. 

The inhabitants of Venice Beach’s strip are a mixture of locals and tourists, all of them taking life slow. Dog walkers. Skateboarders. Groups crowding street performers and souvenir shop windows. It’s almost impossible to walk quickly with this amount of people around, let alone run. The sand is emptier, though it takes one stride onto the beach to remember why that’s the worst idea ever. 

Around Muscle Beach the crowds get mad. Everyone’s eyeing up the guys working out on the equipment, taking pictures, blocking the path. Freddy tries not to make a fuss about making his way through, even if he wants to yell at them all to move out of his way. When he’s through the worst of it he speeds up, running fast enough for a homeless guy to ask him where the fire is.

He’s doing well. Until he hits the wall. Then _Jesus Christ_ , he has to stop. If he doesn’t, he’ll faint. Dropping the backpack, he gets his breath back, hands on knees, red and green flashes in his vision. The fire-hot summer air scrapes down his throat, making him cough. Heat seeps in through the soles of his sneakers while he’s standing still. He’s so hot he could puke. Wetting his dry lips with a sandpaper tongue, he watches sweat drip off his forehead onto the cement. It evaporates instantly. There’s no shade any-fucking-where. He can’t run anymore. Not in this heat. He’s done. Hopefully White won’t be too disappointed.

Carrying the backpack in one hand, he starts walking, guilt building in his chest with every step. White wants him to succeed. And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t an endurance test. Maybe someone’s going to jump him, try and get the bag off him, sent from the desk of the great Joe Cabot. Nah. That’s too much trouble. He must be getting heat stroke. (But this still doesn’t make an ounce of sense.)

Car lots and empty stretches of sand replace shops and stalls. Flashy hotels pop up, beaches covered in sunbathers and couples picnicking with young kids. He knows where he is: Santa Monica beach. All the clues are there. Graffiti-covered buildings. Boutiques. Hotdog stands. Then, finally, the pier, stretching out into the glistening turquoise water, quivering in the heat haze like a mirage. The Ferris wheel spins at the end, gives Freddy a goal. With no idea where he’s finding the energy, he swings the pack over his shoulders and jogs. 

White’s up ahead, leaning against the railings of the steps leading up to the boardwalk. At least, when he blinks the sweat out his eyes – that’s dripping from his goddamn eyelashes – it looks like him. His back hurts like hell, and he’s never been this thirsty in his life. He’s light-headed, delirious. But White’s smiling, and that makes it all worth it. Until he isn’t smiling anymore. 

Out of fucking nowhere, something knocks Freddy to the ground like a freight train. With a crash of metal and the thudding crunch of limbs, he’s on his ass, sand in his eyes, the weighted backpack dragging him down like a rag doll. 

“Fucking douchebag! You’ve trashed my bike!” 

Rubbing his eyes, Freddy lifts his head. He’s lying across a bike lane. The crash of metal was a bike, the crumpled frame of which is twisted under him and the weights, and the rider looks _pissed_. It’s all playing on half-speed: the rider getting to his feet, White rushing down the steps, onlookers stopping to stare, the rider clutching Freddy’s shirt and dragging him up from the hot ground. He’s dazed, and his ribs hurt like crazy, but he’s not too out of it to know he can’t get into a fight. There’re cops on the beach – always are – and he can’t risk alerting their attention for his sake and White’s. But then the guy smacks him in the face, hard – he might be able to make an exception. 

White barges between them, pushing the rider away. “Hey! It was an accident, all right?” 

“Who asked you, dude?” 

Both of White’s hands are raised, though his posture is far from surrendering. “I saw the whole thing and it looked very much to me like you plowed straight into this kid, so why weren’t you looking where you were going, huh?”

“Look…” Freddy tries, clutching his ribs, bending over to get his breath back while the backpack stays on the ground where it belongs. 

The rider starts getting physical with White, shoving him, yelling in his face, spoiling for a fight. People are crowding around. Officer Newandyke could’ve sorted this easy; people stop acting like kids when they see a uniform. But Mr. Orange is the one who got hit by this douchebag, and Mr. Orange isn’t a pushover.

White had taken it well, deflecting the rider’s anger rather than making matters worse, but when the guy takes a swing at him, Freddy sees red. The repressed part of him that holds back whenever someone spits on him or calls him a pig cop slips its leash. With one swift swing, he punches the guy square in the face and he goes down like a ton of bricks, knocked out cold. 

“Shit.” 

White pats Freddy’s waist. “Let’s get out of here. Now.” 

The Lincoln’s parked around the corner and the crowds Freddy despised minutes ago become a godsend while they weave their way through, out of sight, leaving only confusion behind. Freddy’s pumped with enough adrenaline he barely registers the pain in his side or his knuckles. That was quite a punch. He can’t stop smiling. 

White turns to him once they’re on the road, an equally wide grin on his face. “You okay, kid?” 

Rooting through the glovebox for White’s water bottle, still holding his side, Freddy nods. “Yeah.”

“We should take a look anyway, maybe get that hand on ice?” 

Freddy laughs. “It’s not that bad.” 

White pulls over in a residential street, away from tourists and prying eyes. A brick wall stands at the end, a little higher than waist-level, separating the end house from what looks like a building site – there’s no work going on. Once they’re out of the car, White pats the wall and tells him to sit. 

Freddy manages, with difficulty, to pull himself up. As soon as he’s settled, White lifts the edge of Freddy’s shirt, prompting him to hold it. He bends down, squinting at the spot where the bike hit him, then reaches out to touch him. Freddy flinches.

“Does this hurt?” White prods his grazed ribs with a light and careful pressure, one by one. 

It doesn’t hurt that much – he’s had worse – but the concern on White’s face makes him feel like the center of his world and it’s kind of lovely. “Yeah.” 

“You might’ve cracked one.” He stands up straight, shaking his head. “Fucking asshole. I swear I came this close to pulling my gun on that little prick.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Turning his attention to where the guy socked Freddy in the face, White touches his temple with two fingers. Again, it’s a gentle pressure, applied while studying him. He’s worried. 

“You’ll probably bruise here,” he says under his breath, leaning in. He brushes Freddy’s bangs back to look closer. 

Freddy’s melting under the attention, can’t help hissing under his breath.

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not sure. It’s a blur.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” White looking into his eyes is somehow more intimate than the way he’s touching his scalp, almost like he’s petting him. 

“I didn’t want him to hurt you.” 

White stares at Freddy’s mouth, then back up into his eyes, an almost indiscernible smile spreading across his lips. “I can fight my own battles, kid.” 

Freddy tips his head back into White’s touch, eyelids fluttering closed. White’s hand glides lower, until warm fingertips curl into the baby hairs at his nape and Freddy had to fight back a shiver. Goosebumps prickle on his forearms. White’s close. Too close for someone who knows his secret. Close enough that Freddy can smell him: aftershave and sweat – familiar and reassuring. His eyes are all over Freddy’s face, lips pursed, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think he was about to kiss him. 

“This is my fault.” White’s hand falls away. 

“How?” 

White wipes a hand down his face, stepping away. Then he’s pacing, eyes down, considering his answer. 

Freddy asks again, reaching out to stop him. “How?”

With a sigh, White shakes his head. “Joe never asked you to do this. To be perfectly honest, you’ve impressed me, kid. You’re a good shot, you can take instruction, you’ve got balls. I was curious to see how good you were.” His eyes are on the sidewalk again, unable to look at him. “I thought you might want to work with me in the future. I mean, after this. Without Joe. It’s stupid…” 

He squeezes White’s arm to reassure him, oddly touched by the praise, by how sweet he looks when he’s nervous. He should be annoyed, but he isn’t. 

“If you wanted to hang out you coulda just asked, Mr. White.” The codename feels weird in his mouth with all this honesty. It seems to rub White up the wrong way, too. 

“It’s Larry,” he says, eyes darting up to Freddy then down at the sidewalk again.

Well, shit. White breaking Joe’s golden rule certainly came out of left field. He’s trusting Freddy with this, taking a big leap of faith. Maybe Freddy should, too. “Well, _Larry_ , you should ask me.” 

“Ask you what?” 

“If I wanna go to Boots & Socks with you tonight. You’ll pick me up, say, nine thirty?” 

White looks up. “What would you say?” 

“I guess I’d say something like: ‘Yeah, sure’.” Mr. Orange is the one being this forward. Someplace else, Freddy Newandyke’s knees are knocking together and he’s pissed his pants. 

Eyeing Freddy up and down, White’s, no, _Larry_ ’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles that life-affirming smile of his. “I’m glad I asked.”

 

*

 

White’s thigh has burnt into Freddy’s for the last hour. His arm’s slung over the back of Freddy’s chair, leaning in to talk over the music, bourbon on his breath. He’s dropping big hints: lighting Freddy’s cigarettes, buying his drinks, discussing topics Joe banned, real soul searching. Freddy can’t stand it. He still doesn’t know what possessed him to set this up, or what fuck is going on between them. If it’s something more than friendship then it’s all he’s ever wanted, honestly. But it’s all he can’t have. White – Larry, he must remember – likes Orange; he likes the illusion of the person Freddy’s acting out; he likes how they mesh, how they get on, and there’s something exciting and dangerous about that. Deep down, though, it’s all false, and he’s not sure what hurts more: that he wishes it was genuine or that Larry’s fallen for it. 

Knocking back his drink, Freddy interrupts Larry’s story about his last business partner. It’s detail he should lock away for the future, for Holdaway, but he doesn’t care about that anymore. 

“Love this song. I’m gonna go dance.” He doesn’t even know the song, but who cares? This whole charade will be over in days. It’s an escape, really, because the longer he sits next to Larry the more tempted he’ll be to slide a hand onto his thigh to see if he pushes it away. He can’t be that fucking stupid even if he wants to. 

The dancefloor is mere steps away, a sea of bodies bathed in red light, all moving to the same beat. This time of night they crank the music up enough that the speakers shake. The bass vibrates inside Freddy’s chest as he makes his way through the crowd, finds a spot where he can let the music wash over him. He needs to get lost in it, clear his mind, but all he can think about is Larry. Through the swaying bodies, he sees him sat at their small table holding a cigarette, eyes picking through the dancers. When he spots Freddy, he smiles, wets his lips with his tongue and takes a long drag, looking him up and down like his gaze is a fucking x-ray that can see Freddy’s deepest, darkest desires and dares him to say them aloud. 

Does Larry want him the way he thinks he does? He could’ve read every single sign wrong since the beginning. Larry might just be overfriendly, a bit handsy, and feel totally scandalized that his friendliness has been misread as something else. But Larry keeps watching him dance, studying him, never taking his eyes off him for a second. 

One of them needs to make the first move. Freddy’s already half done that by inviting him here, the place they met. Only, it was different back then: Larry was a criminal for him to screw over, not someone whose company he actually enjoyed, who made him feel safe and somehow more alive than he ever had in his life.

A hand on his shoulder breaks him from his thoughts. It’s attached to a tall guy sporting the loudest windbreaker Freddy’s ever seen. He’s drunk, probably, because out of nowhere he’s hugging Freddy tight enough that his groin’s practically grinding his ass and he stinks of liquor. Could be a dare: go and annoy that guy and see how long it takes him to tell you to piss off.

Windbreaker yells something Freddy can’t make out over the music and repeats himself when he gets no reaction, closer this time. “You’re so cute!” 

Freddy shrugs himself free, smiling awkwardly. If the guy was a chick, he’d flash his ring with an apologetic smile, but he’s not wearing it tonight. 

“Will you dance with me?” Windbreaker hugs Freddy again, snaking a hand around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. 

Slinking out of his grip, again, Freddy informs him he just wants to dance and moves away through the dancers towards the DJ’s table. He follows him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He isn’t giving up.

“No thanks!” 

Freddy shakes his head when the guy takes his arm, trying to pull away politely. Any minute now he’ll get the hint. Maybe it’s a sign he should get out of here. Coming here with White was a bad idea anyway. I mean, how fucking stupid do you have to be to get this involved, to make yourself this vulnerable? 

When Larry cuts through the dancers, he’s not looking at Freddy; he’s homing in on the other guy, face like murder. Freddy tries to block his path because he knows where this might be going, but Larry barges past and smacks the guy right in the face with an open hand. The scuffle parts the dancefloor like the red sea. Windbreaker’s holding his nose. Some chick beside him starts yelling at Larry.

There’s no way Freddy’s staying, not now. Storming through the crowd, he aims for the only place he can escape to without making more of a scene: the men’s room. 

Pacing, Freddy avoids looking in the mirror. All this time he’s been playing with fire and he was so close to getting burnt. Well, it’s game over. He’s a professional. There’re lives at stake – his among them! Emotions have no place in this world and he needs to get his head straight. Too much of the real Freddy Newandyke has bled into Mr. Orange. He can’t allow that. No more bullshit. It ends. Now. 

The door swings open and of course it’s Larry.

“You okay, kid?” 

Fucker has no idea how not okay he is. He’s going to explode right here in the fucking men’s room. 

Larry comes over, tries to take his wrist, but Freddy snatches his arm away and paces again, by the door this time. He has to get out of here, away from Larry, away from having to think, but he’s furious, with himself, with Larry, with this whole motherfucking situation, and there’s only one person here to take it out on besides himself.

Gesturing towards the door, towards the mess that was smacking a guy in the middle of a busy dancefloor, Freddy yells, “The fuck was that, Larry?”

Larry’s voice is impossibly calm, impossibly steady. “Someone’s gotta protect you from sleazeballs like that.” 

Freddy scoffs, stops dead. Incredible. Fucking incredible. “Who says I’m yours to protect!” 

In a split second, Larry grabs him and shoves him hard against the bathroom door. His mouth is on his, lips crushing in; he’s kissing him, gripping him hard enough to hurt. Freddy pushes him away. Tries to. Larry isn’t having it. 

“Are you not?” he asks, kissing the corner of Freddy’s mouth. He brushes his sweat-damp bangs back to press more kisses to his cheek, forehead, his bruised temple, the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” Freddy mumbles, stunned. 

“What?” Larry’s voice is low. Mouth wet and open, he sucks the skin beneath Freddy’s ear. 

“I am.” 

“You’re what?” 

When their foreheads press, Freddy can hardly speak. “Yours.” 

“If you were mine, you’d let me take you back to my motel and finish this off properly.” The press of his hips clarifies what he means. “So, are you mine, or are you just a prick-tease?” 

Freddy swallows. He’s powerless to resist this, to resist _him_ , so he stops trying. 

“I’m yours.”

 

*

 

Larry kisses him back onto his creaky motel mattress and Freddy lets him. He wants this, and it’s for no one’s benefit than his own. It’s reckless. Selfish. He’s hiding nothing; tonight, Larry gets all of him.

“Tell me what you want.” Larry’s voice is rich, deep.

“You.” 

“You got me, baby.” Their fingers lace against the sheets as Larry’s tongue slides the length of Freddy’s neck, leaving a wet trail on his skin. “What do you like?” 

Freddy whimpers, lost. What does he like? This is all new. “I… don’t know.” All he wants is Larry. He needs him, this, anything he wants to give him. 

“We’ll take it nice and slow,” Larry breathes, nosing Freddy’s temple. He unbuttons Freddy’s shirt one-handed, dips his head to kiss the exposed skin. 

No one’s ever kissed him like this before. Larry’s heavy, his sturdy frame weighing down on him as he crawls down the bed, tonguing and kissing his way lower. When his teeth catch on his nipple, Freddy squirms, a strangled cry escaping his throat. Larry’s hands wander, like he can’t decide where to touch, wants to touch all of him at once. Kneading. Dragging across his scalp and grabbing handfuls of his hair. Brushing his wrists. Tracing the muscles in his throat, the ridges of his ribs. When they reach his hips, a finger teasing the waistline of his Levi’s, Freddy arches up. 

“Yeah.” 

Larry’s taking his sweet time, playing with the trail of hair beneath Freddy’s navel. Maybe he’s waiting for permission, as if Freddy on his back, legs spread and jeans tenting isn’t enough. 

“ _Larry_.” His name on his lips makes his head swim. Their little secret. “Larry…” It’s hard to stop saying it.

Larry eases his buckle apart. Finally. Stopping once it’s open, he looks at him with an eyebrow raised like he’s asking. Freddy nods, too eager. Fucking do it. It spurs Larry into action, his strong hands tearing the leather through his belt loops, tossing it onto the floor with a clatter. He pops the button of his jeans, tugs the zipper down and presses his lips straight to his dick through his briefs like he’d been craving it. Then he’s back to agonizingly slow teasing, dotting gentle kisses along the swollen, sensitive length of him. Freddy whines and Larry chuckles, kisses the small patch of cotton at the tip that’s soaked dark with pre-come. 

“Fucking— shit, Larry— just— God _please_ …” His own voice sounds unrecognizable, like someone else’s.

Peeling the elastic away, Larry slides Freddy’s boxers down over his hips. His dick’s hard enough that it stands once it’s free, fitting straight into Larry’s waiting palm. He strokes it with his whole fist, firm and controlled, from the head all the way to his balls, slow enough to make Freddy’s entire body go limp. Without a word, Larry wraps his mouth around the tip, sucks the wet head gently, and all Freddy can do is gasp. 

“You like that?” Larry’s hand keeps on working him, his warm breath swimming across Freddy’s belly. 

Freddy’s answer is a nervous whimper because Larry barely took half an inch of him inside his mouth and he could’ve blown his load right then. 

Larry does it again, sliding his lips down Freddy’s dick slowly until his days’ worth of chin stubble drags over Freddy’s balls and the tip of his nose presses into his pubes. Then he goes to town, and there’s nothing delicate about his technique. He sucks hard, gripping Freddy’s hips with both hands. The end of Freddy’s dick grazes the back of his throat when he arches up which is… fucking incredible, makes his legs writhe and tighten around Larry’s broad shoulders. When Larry’s tongue slides over the head, teasing under the edge of Freddy’s foreskin, his legs fall slack against the bed, toes curling into the sheets. 

“So good,” he drawls, reaching down to grab Larry’s hair. He needs another connection with him, something to squeeze in his fists.

The steady motion of Larry’s head under his palms is somehow more amazing than the tight lock his lips, his tongue’s liquid movements, and the obscene wet sounds of his attention. He’s too good at this. Gives head like a pro. Freddy watches him, thumb tracing the line of his jaw through his cheek, the muscles clenching in his neck. He sweeps his hair aside for a better view, mesmerized by the sight of his dick sliding in and out of a gorgeous mouth he can’t help but arch up into. Pleasure sparks through his belly. He bites his lip as Larry pushes his hips back down, holds them there. 

“I’m nearly there.” He’s going to faint, scream, _die_ , if he doesn’t get more of this.

Larry gets it. Slipping both hands under him, he lifts Freddy’s hips up from the bed and kneads the flesh of his ass with both hands. Freddy’s dick stays buried to the hilt in his mouth and he sucks hard, tongue laving the shaft while a deep, satisfied groan rumbles through Freddy’s dick. 

“Fuck!” Freddy’s balls pull tight, the tight heat of his approaching climax undulating deep in his abdomen, spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers. He’s light-headed, could float away if his throbbing dick wasn’t firmly anchored in Larry’s mouth. 

A rich red clings to Larry’s cheeks when he comes up for air. “You gonna come in my mouth?” It’s asked like a dare. 

The question alone has Freddy writhing, crushing the pillow into his fists and straining his neck to look down at him. “Yeah. Now!” 

“Yeah?” He smiles, eyelids heavy with lust.

Freddy slams both hands over his face. “Please, fuck— do it! _Please_! ” 

He comes the moment he’s back in Larry’s mouth, hips shuddering as the pressure releases, the pulsing pleasure making him sob, whine, bang his head against the pillow. Larry laps up everything Freddy gives him, sucks him through it, keeps on swallowing when Freddy keeps on coming. 

“Good boy,” Larry whispers, licking his lips as he pulls away. 

Freddy’s a rag doll, utterly useless as Larry shuffles up beside him. Fingertips brush his bangs back from where they’re stuck to his forehead and he finds the energy to open his eyes, looks up at Larry through his lashes. Larry’s unzipped, stroking himself slowly. He’s staring. Staring how he had at Boots & Socks tonight, in that taqueria, when he glanced at him from the driver’s seat while speeding down the highway. No one else looks at him this way: like he’s the only thing that matters, like the world could end this second and Larry wouldn’t give a fuck. 

“You’re fucking beautiful, kid.”

How can he process that? He must look a state, lying with his softening dick hanging out his briefs, denim rucked halfway down his thighs, shirt hanging off his shoulders. But Larry likes the view. He’s biting his lip, drinking it up like a good whiskey. 

Freddy drags a tired hand from his bare stomach up to his nipple. It’s peaked, sensitive. He chews his lip at the memory of Larry biting it. Staring up at him, he circles the raised flesh with a lazy fingertip, enjoys Larry’s gaze fixed on him, no one else. Larry’s mouth falls open when Freddy licks his finger and touches his nipple again.

“What’d I do to you?” Larry asks. “Tell me.” 

He wants to hear him say it. 

As clearly as he can, Freddy tells him. “You sucked my dick.”

A stammered moan, and Larry’s hand pumps faster. He liked that. “Yeah?”

“Mmmm, you sucked my dick real good, Larry.” 

Larry purses his lips, breathes heavy through his nose while Freddy teases himself. Then Freddy reaches over, grazes his fingers against Larry’s thigh until he gets the hint and lets him take over. His dick’s built like the rest of him: a good handful, handsome, a little intimidating. If only he had the energy to suck it. He squeezes it, solid in his hand, lets himself stare. His mouth waters. 

“That’s it,” Larry encourages. Enclosing Freddy’s hand with his own he sets the pace. 

Larry’s staring at him like he’s dazed, getting high as hell from looking. As his breath catches in his throat he moves closer, still pumping both their hands around his dick. He shoves his face into Freddy’s hair, panting broken whimpers against his temple. When his whole body stiffens, breath held, Freddy knows he’s coming. His dick pulses in his fist, come trickling thick over his knuckles. Larry hisses a ragged ‘Fuck’ into his ear. Incredible. 

Turning his head, Freddy tries to kiss him, but he’s too out of it. He sucks Larry’s bottom lip instead, enjoys the way it makes it moan. 

It’s Larry’s turn to be exhausted. Flopping back onto the pillow, he inhales deep and exhales slow. Freddy wants him to look at him again, touch him again. He needs his attention. His eyes. His mouth. His hands. His voice in his ear. There shouldn’t be any space between them. As he shuffles closer, Larry bends his arm up behind his head, inviting him in. Freddy fills the gap, settles against his side, and he’s only slightly surprised when Larry’s arm comes down around his back and pulls him closer. It’s perfect. The most comfortable he’s ever been in his life. 

They share another long, relaxed silence before Larry breaks it, stroking Freddy’s waist. “It’s a real inconvenience, this, whatever the hell we’re doing.” His tone isn’t serious.

“Why?”

“I have a personal rule never to mix work and pleasure.” It makes sense. Larry doesn’t seem the type to muddy his career with personal attachments. He’s being as reckless as Freddy. Maybe more so.

“Which one am I?” 

The question has the desired effect: Larry laughs. But Freddy’s left wondering the same thing. 

 

*

 

Freddy’s never woken up this fast before. Like, blink: awake. Nothing in-between. 

The stained motel ceiling looms above. His eyes adjust to the daylight, of being somewhere else. The air conditioner hums. Cars pass outside. Someone uses the ice machine a few doors down. Larry’s breathing softly to his side, his weight tipping the mattress a little. Freddy can’t look at him yet. 

Should he leave? Would Larry want that? Does he want that? Who fucking knows. He got what he wanted last night. Today he needs to sort out the mess he’s gotten himself into. But there’s no easy way out of this one, is there?

He could use the opportunity to look around Larry’s motel room. Though what’s he looking for? There are plenty of things he hasn’t told Holdaway about him yet. Plenty of things he won’t until he has to. And one thing he never will.

“You ever relax?” Larry asks. He must’ve been watching him. “I swear you’re always wound up tighter than a corkscrew.” 

Larry reaches across, strokes a thumb over his temple, and everything falls back into place. Freddy knows what he wants, what he needs to do: be here, with Larry. 

“C’mere.” Larry pats Freddy’s shoulder, encourages him to shuffle over, close the space that grew naturally between them while they slept. 

Larry took his shirt off overnight. His skin is warm against Freddy’s cheek, his chest hair soft and peppered with grey. Freddy runs his fingers through it, then rests his hand there, his heartbeat thudding against his palm.

“You ever want a repeat of last night, you let me know.” Larry’s smile carries in his voice. As his fingertips travel down Freddy’s side light enough to tickle, his hand pauses. He dips his chin to look at where he’s touching. “How’d you do that?” He’s fingering an old scar that belongs to Officer Newandyke, back when he was just starting out, second week of the job. 

“Got stabbed.” 

“By who?” He sounds mortified.

He’ll never forget his name: Simon Turner, a coke dealer resisting arrest who got seven shades of shit kicked out of him in his holding cell and ended up the worse off out of the two of them. “Some mugger.” 

Pulling him close, Larry kisses his hair. “If anyone so much as laid a finger on you I’d rip their balls off.” 

Freddy laughs. “Yeah, kinda got that after last night.” 

He nestles in closer, resting his chin on Larry’s collarbone. If only he could stay here forever, in the calm eye of the storm he’s created. Outside this motel room, this bed, this moment, one of his masks goes back on: undercover cop or fledging thief. 

“You know, I still don’t know your name.” 

Seems the mask goes back on now. 

Freddy sits back, looks Larry in the eyes. “You still wanna partner up after this job?” 

“Well, sure. If you do.” 

He could say yes. It would be so easy. But it’d only be another lie and Larry deserves more, even if he’s only delaying it. 

“I’m still deciding.”

“Okay.” 

It goes unspoken that Freddy’s choosing to wait until he’s made up his mind to divulge his name, to break Joe’s rule, but Larry gets it. He nods, looks the tiniest bit hurt. Freddy feels a total ass to be the cause. But Larry’s always been good at absorbing the stuff Freddy throws at him. He can deal with it.

“Are you hungry? There’s a good waffle house a block over.” 

“I kinda wanna stay in bed with you.”

Larry smiles. “Not had your fill of me yet, huh?” He grabs a pack of Chesterfields from the nightstand, lights two in his mouth before passing one to Freddy and plopping an ashtray on the bed between them. 

Freddy takes a drag, blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “This place do room service?” 

“Does it look like it does?” 

After a brief glance around that’s mostly for show, Freddy smirks. “Okay. Let’s go get waffles.” 

 

*

 

They got to the diner Joe picked early. He couldn’t stand the waiting, felt like he’d suffocate in Larry’s motel room or the walls might close in on him or something. They’re both wearing the suits, though Freddy’s tie is scrunched up in the pocket; he’ll put it on once the others arrive. 

A large table by the window has one of those silver reserved signs in the center – Joe, probably. Larry pulls out a chair and sits at it with such confidence no one would question his right to do so. Freddy takes the one beside him, mouth dry, chest so tight he can hardly breathe. How he’ll manage breakfast, he has no clue. The thought of eggs or coffee or anything makes him want to puke. 

Larry puts his hand on his thigh under the table. “Try not to worry.” 

As if it’s that straightforward. 

The waitress takes their drink order, Larry deciding for them both while Freddy stares through the salt and pepper shaker, listening but not listening. He’s going to do this, isn’t he? He’s going to betray Larry, turn him over just like that, as if none of this ever happened.

Larry squeezes his thigh once the waitress leaves, and Freddy can’t do this anymore. Standing sharply, he mumbles that he’s going to the men’s room and ignores Larry’s worried expression following him over his shoulder. 

The bathroom is worse, somehow. It’s tiny, claustrophobic, only one cubicle and a sink. A crack in the mirror, one jagged line running diagonally across, cuts his reflection in two. The soap dispenser looks empty. There’s not enough here to distract him from the reason he came in. He needs to think, get his head together, give himself the pep talk he desperately needs. Where would he even begin? This is going to be the worst day of his fucking life. 

Burying his face in his hands, he takes a few deep breaths through his fingers before looking at himself again in the broken mirror. The hair Larry was eager to style slicked-back is falling out of place. His eyelashes are clumped together with tears. 

When the door creaks open, Freddy straightens and goes to turn the faucet, pretend he’s washing his hands. But it’s Larry; he doesn’t need to pretend with him. Larry approaches, cautious, looking at him in the mirror. Freddy screws his eyes closed, clings to the edge of the sink. It hurts to look at him when he knows he’s going to lose him. 

“What’re you doing in here, huh?” He presses himself against Freddy’s back. The weight of his body is a comfort, as are his hands creeping around his waist, holding him. “I’m sitting in there by myself like a chump.” Fingers in Freddy’s hair, he sets it right again. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He strokes the back of Freddy’s neck, rests his forehead on his temple. “It’ll go off without a hitch, you’ll see. It’ll be in, out, two minutes, then we can get the hell out of there.” 

It doesn’t help. It’s not true. 

“I’m terrified.”

Larry kisses his cheek, meets his eyes in the mirror. “Do you honestly think I’d ever let anything happen to you?” He envelops Freddy with strong arms, encouraging him to sink back into what will probably be their last embrace. Larry doesn’t know that, so Freddy clings to him, to the last shred of the life he could have if he wasn’t such a coward. “Well? Do you?” 

Freddy shakes his head. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. Larry will keep him safe – he’d probably take a bullet for him if the need arose – but he’s going to take all that trust, all that loyalty, and throw it away. There’s no other option. 

“You’ll do fine. You just gotta be brave.” Larry’s face looks soft in the reflection, his dark eyes on his.

Joe’s booming voice on the other side of the door breaks the moment, has them parting instinctively. The Cabots have arrived. 

With a glance at his watch, Larry says, “Right on time. C’mon, let’s get some breakfast down you.”

Larry holds the door open for him, raising the curtain for his last act. Freddy walks through to greet his audience. This will be his last performance, so he better make sure it’s a good one.


End file.
